


(don't wanna be) standing still

by swallowedsong (bookstvnerdlove)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Clear Eyes Full Hearts Can't Lose, F/M, Friday Night Lights AU, emma swan as matt saracen, even if you don't usually like high school au's you should definitely read this, friday night lights - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-15
Updated: 2016-10-25
Packaged: 2018-07-24 04:25:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7493739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bookstvnerdlove/pseuds/swallowedsong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>save the football season, save the town, save herself. Emma Swan knows pressure and the last thing she needs is to be distracted by the new guy who shows up to school in black leather and hassles her under the bleachers. new school, but still alone. on his own and fresh from juvie, Killian Jones isn’t sure what the hell he’s thinking, getting involved with the girl jock who reminds him of everything he’s lost in life. but here he is anyway. </p><p>aka friday night lights au, where Emma is Matt Saracen, basically.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Coach’s fingers curl around the steel of her face mask, the gravitational pull towards his body strong enough that her feet stumble. One step. Two. Scanning his face for any sort of encouragement, all she can see is pain and frustration. Maybe a tinge of fear. It’s not very comforting, though his words belie everything the shadow in his eyes and the clench of his jaw are telling her, “You can do this Emma. Just like we ran the play at practice this week.”

Usually it’d be Swan that he’d call her, short and sharp, correcting her form or her stance or telling her to hustle. But right now, in this moment, he’s something more than a coach and she’s more than just another player on his field.

She nods, one quick, sharp motion, her eyes steady on his, even though her mind is racing. Racing to Graham on the stretcher, to the silence that spread throughout the crowds in the stadium. Racing to the bright lights that will shine on her - _oh, God they’re all gonna be looking at her_ \- in mere seconds. But Coach is right there, reading her mind, his voice her anchor, “Don’t think about Graham. Don’t think about the crowd. The only thing that matters is you and the ball.”

She blinks, lashes fluttering against the rise of fear gripping her throat, as she turns and runs onto the field, the rest of her team - _oh, God it’s her team now_ \- waiting in the huddle.

The last thought she has before succumbing to the adrenaline of the huddle, before she fumbles through the play call and the snap, is that they’re going to run her out of town if she loses this game

.

When she cracks her eyes open the next morning, she’s immediately assaulted by the pain of bruised muscle, and an even more bruised ego. All she can think about is that final sack, the way she'd held on to the ball as tightly as she could, and hit the ground, so that they only lost the game by three points, instead of the ten it could've been with a turnover.

Given that it is 11 am and she's still safe and relatively sound in her own bed, she hasn’t been run out of town yet. But that’s probably because, she assumed, the entire town is standing vigil at the hospital, waiting for Graham to wake up. She’d wanted to be there, too, until she allowed Jefferson to talk her out of it.

_“They’re probably all on edge, Emma. We can go tomorrow, it’ll make no difference.”_

She’s still not certain his advice was sound, though it never really is. (Can you really trust a guitarist for a Christian death metal band?) Still, she couldn’t fight the exhaustion of the night. Besides, Ingrid needed her, too. Maybe even more so than Graham. He’s got the entire town rallying behind him, talk of fundraisers for medical bills already rampant on social media.

Ingrid? Ingrid only has Emma.

The distinct smell of coffee and bacon has Emma forgetting about pain. The last time Ingrid tried to cook, a fire extinguisher was involved, as well as the handsome, older firefighter who lived next door. The one with the adopted kid, Henry, who's taken to shadowing her every time she takes to throwing a football around in the backyard, trying to let it fly through the center of the tire each time.

As she learned last night, fear is laced with adrenaline that takes away all pain - until the inevitable crash.

Halfway down the hallway, her heart slows back down to a normal pace as she heard Jeff’s teasing and Ingrid’s responding laughter.

.

The hospital is a small, rundown brick building a mile from the school. As she locks up her bike, a out of habit more than anything, since honestly, nobody would want her bike with its bent frame and handlebars, she notices an old blue ford truck idling in the parking lot. Will Scarlet, Safety - and Graham's best friend. He's running his hands through his long hair and his back is hunched. But he's making no movies to leave his vehicle.

Meanwhile, Coach is outside, running his hands through his short hair, pacing back and forth. As she makes her approach she offers a weak, “Hey Coach Nolan,” he stops pacing to wait for her.

“Emma.”

His voice is tired, cracking over her name.

“Any news?” Her voice is steadier than seconds earlier.

Coach pushes his sunglasses up and meets her eyes, “It's very serious, but he's stable.”

Her throat is tight as she says, “Stable is good.”

The breath that Coach expels is a harsh whoosh, “He may not walk again, Emma.”

The thing Emma appreciates most about Coach is that he's a straight shooter. As much as the news hurts, she likes the way he says it. All matter of fact, so she knows exactly what she's dealing with.

“I wasn't sure I should come,” she admits. “I don't - I wasn't -” But she can't finish her sentence. Because what does it matter if her and Graham hadn't been that close. He'd been her teammate. He still was her teammate, regardless of what happens. She might not be part of the Texas Forever club. But he’ll always be her teammate.

“You should go in. I have to get back to Mary Margaret and the baby. I'll see you at practice on Monday, Swan,” he switches to the name he uses on the field.

“See you coach,” she whispers as the automatic doors open for her.

. . .

Killian’s not sure what he's doing here. Well, to be accurate, he's perfectly clear what he's doing in this precise moment, under the bleachers. He's bumming a smoke off the pretty brunette with the scowling girlfriend, both wearing the short skirts and cropped tops that are the hallmark of high school football and its tradition of pretty cheerleaders. Both jumping away from each other guiltily, as he'd cleared his throat in a polite attempt to alert them to his presence.

When the taller, leggier, one had pulled out a cigarette seconds later, he'd overridden the other girl’s sigh and asked for one.

So yeah, he knows what he's doing here.

But in this town? In high school? Being an eighteen-year-old, formerly emancipated minor since the age of sixteen, he could have easily gotten his GED and called it a day. But that tiny part of himself that still hears Milah’s voice has somehow convinced him to give it one last try for a future somewhat bigger than tinkering with old cars in in his new town, in the dusty, defunct oil fields in east Texas.

Taking the bummed cigarette he flicks open his zippo and he promises his savior that he'll bring her one tomorrow. Her girlfriend rolls her eyes and snaps, “I’d hand over her whole damn pack if I didn't know she'd have a brand new one the next day.”

A pause, “I'm Mulan. Yes, my mom was obsessed with that movie.” She nods at her partner, “This is Ruby.”

“I'm Ian,” he tries out a new name, but it feels strange coming from his lips, not used to forming the syllable in that lonely way.

The brunette called Ruby tilts her head as she takes a long drag before stomping her half smoked cigarette in the dirt and gravel.

“You sure about that?”

Her voice is kind as she asks the question, but it still digs deep under his skin, as much as he tries not to show it. He shrugs. “Trying on something new.”

“I'm not sure it fits.”

“Me, neither.”

Their verbal match is interrupted by a shrill whistle and a woman's voice echoing, sharp and eager.

“Gotta jet,” Ruby says as she elbows Mulan, who hasn't said much, but has been watching him quietly, dark eyes softer than the set of her jaw.

“See you around, Ian.”

As they leave, he considers doing the same. He’d taken shelter under the bleachers, trying to avoid some degree of the sweltering heat and the early September sun, killing some time before he has to be at work. It’s more unsettling now. Now that he’s met two of his classmates and, even though the conversation had been limited at best, it’s less comfortable. More quiet, with only the faint sounds of cheer practice in the background.

But, fuck it. He’s got half of a free cigarette dangling from his lips. He might as well finish it.

Five minutes later, he's grounding out the cigarette butt when there's a loud bang, sounding like a metal door closing, then a rush of bodies and sounds of male posturing along the edge of the lot, the football team making its way to the field for practice. Waiting them out in the shadows, he ignores the way his gut burns at the memories that flash through his mind, memories of Saturday and Sunday afternoons at his old house, of beer and friends, and his brother, memories tainted by the way everything went to shit so quickly that his thirteen year old head spin.

What he's not prepared for, after the rush of boys - boys masquerading as men on the field - are the two straggling players. Muscular, but lanky in their uniforms, in a way reserved mostly for girls. A blonde with her long hair tied back in a braid and a redhead with a riot of curls, pushed back from her forehead with a bandana. Helmets in hand, they're hustling just enough to escape the notice of their coach, but also holding back.

He catches a glimpse of their names stenciled on the back of their jerseys and he's almost able to make a getaway, escaping their notice, when the blonde whips around, “You might die of heatstroke, all that black and leather.”

He wants to laugh, but it's an ugly kind of humor. Still, he snaps back, “If only I were that lucky.”

Then, clocking the time it will take to get to his car and then the shop five miles out of town, he starts a hustle of his own in the opposite direction.

.

The classic rock is already blaring within Smee’s Auto Body when Killian shows up for work. Dropping his backpack on the floor near the back entrance he shouts, “Yo Billy, I’m here.”

His boss, torso and face hidden under the front end of his car mumbles an irritated, “It’s about time,” then quickly goes back to work.

He works after business hours at the shop in exchange for rent in the apartment above the garage, plus some pocket change, and it’s enough to keep him from asking too many questions about where some of these cars come through, that they break down for parts. It’s not perfect and (thankfully) not entirely based on illegal efforts, but it’s enough to keep his pantry stocked with ramen noodles, peanut butter, and cheap beer bought at the convenience store across the street, the one with lax rules on ID-ing customers who pay with cash. He doesn’t have much more than that, but it sure beats the alternative.

There’s a list of tasks on the clipboard hanging outside the door to Billy’s office and he chooses the first, and easiest task. Eventually he’ll complete them all, long after Billy’s left to go to The Pub. Killian will work until he checks off the final tire rotation, will lock up, and will trudge upstairs. He’ll make coffee and study until he passes out at the card table, on the folding chair.

And when the alarm goes off in the morning, he’ll do it all again.

.

The librarian, Ms. French, also runs before- and after-school programs in the library, every Monday and Wednesday. He likes to show up when he knows she arrives at the school. Even though the students aren’t supposed to wander the halls until eight, she always lets him in at seven-thirty. He’s got a system down, a 7:35 run to the men’s room and a quick peek into the teacher’s lounge. If nobody is there, he’ll swipe a cup of coffee in the small styrofoam cups, and bring it to the desk in the back corner of the library.

Ms. French told him last week that if he could get just two more students interested, she’d sponsor him in creating a lit mag for the school. But that was weeks ago, and he’s yet to find any takers. Could be it's because of his general lack of trying, trying to make friends, trying to fit in.

(He remembers a time that he tried, and the constant numbness in his left hand is a reminder of what happens when he tries.)

(People die. That's what happens.)

As he flips to the next page of Emily Dickinson this morning, his eyes blur at the lines he reads.

_(Now, when I read, I read not,_  
_For interrupting tears_  
_Obliterate the etchings_  
_Too costly for repairs.)_

Whether it’s from his lack of sleep, or the ache of reminder of all the things he wishes that he didn’t have cause to understand, it doesn’t much matter. The words stay there in his brain, burned to the backs of his eyelids.

The idea for a lit mag had started as a joke. Ms. French had caught him with teachers lounge coffee and a stack of poetry books one morning, weeks ago. She'd ignored the coffee cup and instead asked him if he wrote his own poetry, too. There was something so kind about the way she asked that he came back the next day, and the day after that, telling himself the entire time that eventually she would turn on him, rat him out, but she never did.

She had shrugged and suggested he call his time there meetings for a school lit mag, if anybody asked. And then, a few days after that dropped into conversation that, even though she's not a teacher, she is allowed to sponsor student clubs as long as they relate to her job. Which reminds him, it’s been weeks since Ms. French had made her suggestion and she’s still said nothing, still allowed him this small moment in her space. It’s probably time to make a plan, or find a new place to hide away in the mornings.

When the second warning bell rings, he knows it’s time to head to class. Slinging his shredded backpack over one shoulder, he exist the library and starts to make his way down the hall, only to be distracted by two girls in short skirts locking lips in the deserted hallway. With a jolt, he recognizes them as the two cheerleaders he met the day before under the bleachers, and a plan begins to form.

. . .

“Miss Swan, you should disabuse yourself of the notion that sleeping in class is acceptable, newly minted star quarterback or not.”

Emma jolts up with a mumbled, “Si Senor,” to which the entire class remains pin-drop quiet for a few seconds, then bursts into a series of snickers and coughs.

She’d be more embarrassed at being the center of laughter, but then, the rest of the class had never stared down the (mostly) male school board members as they told her that girls can’t play football, and certainly never will in this town.

“While I’m sure Senor Oliva appreciates your adherence to his classroom rules, I think English will suffice for my class.”

Ahh, yes, there it was. The pure disdain that her teacher seems to harbor for his non-Advanced Placement English students. Emma wants to roll her eyes, but she restrains herself (just barely) in an effort to avoid detention at Mr. Hard-Ass’s insistence, for the third week in a row. Explaining to Coach why she was late to practice was hard enough as the back-up to the town’s golden boy. Now? There’s probably nothing she could say to escape running suicides for showing up late.

Luckily Mr. Gold’s attention snaps to the front of the room, as Black Leather Guy rolls into class a full ten minutes late, no tardy pass in hand. He’s got just enough of an air of insolence that Gold elects not to waste more class time meting out punishments. Instead, he offers a clipped, “Find your seat Mr. Jones,” before continuing on with his lecture on symbolism.

.

Black Leather Guy, aka Jones (first name still unknown), is under the bleachers again the next day. This time, he doesn't show up until halfway through and stays there, smoking and lingering until after practice ends. She saw Ruby and Mulan disappear after cheer practice and then emerge twenty minutes later yet still he lingers. Which shouldn't bother her as much as it does. She knows it. Merida knows it too, giving Emma the side eye, even as she stretches her legs on the sidelines, before jogging to the other end of the field where the rest of the special teams unit waits.

Even the whole damn offensive line knows that something is bugging her, today, because she's never been quite this bad in practice before.

“I don't know what kind of burr is up your ass Swan, but you better get your head in the game,” Tiny tells her from his position at Center. “I may not be the flashy star QB1, but I got scouts from Austin coming this week. So you gotta make my snaps look damn good.”

Emma bristles, but she knows it's true. Tiny’s been giving her the best to work with, the giant of a man blocking her from Coach’s defense. And given that their defense was named best high school pass rush defense in the whole damn state, he's definitely got some moves.

“Just keep doing your job, Tiny. I'll get there.”

His reply is a low grunt, but she swears she can hear sarcasm in it.

Of course, it's not just Black Leather Guy. It's _everything_. From dodging Child Protective Services and caring for Ingrid to her late night job at the Dairy Queen across town, the only thing she really has going for her is that she’d managed to memorize the playbook during summer training. And even that’s in question, these days.

Getting back into the game, she adjust her helmet and - as she stares down the eyes of Will Scarlet from across the line of scrimmage - she sends a sneer his way as he curls his lip in response.

It’s on now. It has to be.

.

By the end of practice she's entirely flushed and her hair sticks to her scalp as she removes her helmet and jogs her way to the field house. All she wants to do is shower and crawl into bed, but she's got a late shift, which on a Wednesday night is sure to be dead. Already she counting the minutes remaining until work - ten to walk the extra bit to the ladies locker room, five to shower, two to dress. She’ll have to work with wet hair again tonight and convince the shift manager to not write her up. Of course, if she started winning games, that wouldn’t be an issue anymore.

She's so lost in thought that she doesn't realize that Jones is still under the bleachers until she hears, “You're going to have to throw better than that if you want to actually win games.”

The sinking in her stomach is so intense that that is what makes her stop in her tracks, not his words. Words that she's heard all afternoon from her teammates. (Words that she's heard in her head since the game last Friday.) She stands there for a second - two, three - before she swallows a gulping breath and spins on her heels, “Wow. Thanks for that amazing insight.”

His left brow arches, face still impassive, and there's a shrug in his tone as he replies, if not on his body, “Merely an observation.”

She snorts. There’s clearly nothing mere about it. But if he wants to delude himself, who is she to point out the stiff set of his shoulders and the way he looks at the field with both longing and disdain.

“Well, nobody asked you. But hey, thanks again,” Spinning away from him, she hustles to the locker room even more quickly than before.

.

Merlin, also known as Archimedes (never call him Archie) King and star Wide Receiver who can catch passes that nobody else can, and Lance find her at the DQ later. She’s on shift but doing homework at a booth with Jefferson. Or, at least, attempting to do her reading for English while fending off Jeff’s dramatic interpretations of Hamlet's famous soliloquy.

“We have to perform it for class, Emma,” his voice is still hoarse from his performance at the church youth group the night before, but that doesn’t stop him from standing on the booth bench, arms extended, and voice booming.

Emma motions at him to sit his ass down, lest her shift manager come back before her thirty minute “fifteen-minute” smoke break.

“We have to memorize it for class. Performance optional.”

Jeff sniffs at her as he slides back into sitting position, “I’m wearing a silk cravat and bringing my halloween skull head anyway.”

She’s rolling her eyes when she looks up to find two of her teammates hovering over the table. “Hey Merlin. Hey Lance.”

“Didn’t know you worked here, Swan,” Lance says.

She slides out of the booth to head behind the counter, “Been here over a year, but it’s probably best not to advertise that fact, you know?” When they both nod like they get it, those intricacies of small towns and hiring ages, she continues, “What can I get you?”

After dipped cones and flurries are ordered, Merlin backtracks to the counter and, leaning on his elbows, catches her attention. “Tomorrow night? I can stay late for some extra drills.”

“I’m on here, eight to midnight,” she shakes her head.

“Thursday,” he insists.

She’s about to say no again, come up with another excuse (and she’s always got one at the ready) when he slaps his hand down on the counter. “No excuses QB1. We’re playing the Dragons on Friday and I swear…”

His words trail off, but she knows exactly what he means. “Fine. I have to check in at home after school, but pick me up there? And have me back to my place by midnight.”

Merlin winks at her before he heads to the door, “It’s not a date QB, so tell your ma that curfew doesn’t apply.”

She wants to laugh at the joke (that he doesn’t even know is one), but all she can manage is to mutter, “That’s not the problem,” as she wipes aimlessly at the counter.

.

“Those plays were created for a quarterback seven inches taller than you and maybe fifty pounds heavier,” Jones tells her after practice three days later. It’s the day before the game and she just got finished having her ass handed to her by the defensive line. He’s leaning on a post under the bleachers, quickly becoming his usual position, always lurking and watching. And snarking. Can’t forget that.

“Hey Emma,” Ruby and Mulan stand off to the side, fingers haphazardly tangled together as Mulan says hi.

Emma takes note of this, cringing as she takes off her helmet, trying to make sense of this Jones guy (and why she doesn’t turn on her heel and walk away). She wants to think that he’s not so bad, not if Ruby and Mulan are comfortable being together together in front of him. And yet the way he talks to her, all defiant and self-inserting makes the back of her neck burn. Especially today, after more of the same (Tiny’s frustration and her inability to throw the ball anywhere near Merlin for two days running), Emma’s about had it up to her eyeballs with commentary on her performance.

“Yeah, and what do you know about football anyway?” She’ll take it from coach because he’s got the right. She’ll even take it from her teammates (to an extent). But this guy? Screw him.

Jones shrugs, but his blue eyes are bright, even as they’re rimmed with red and punctuated by dark circles underneath. “Maybe nothing, forget I mentioned it.”

“Yeah, but the thing is, you flip it around and you get maybe something, yeah?” She’s not even sure why she’s pushing back at him. She just got done telling herself that she doesn’t want to know.

He shrugs again and then glances at his watch. Glancing over at Ruby and Mulan, he dismisses himself with a quick nod and a murmured, “Tomorrow morning?”

To which her friends (and apparently his) reply, “Yeah, sure.”

Jones looks at her once more before he leaves and there’s something in his expression that tugs at her gut, makes her want to make him stay. But then, she’s no good at that.

. . .

_“And now, something new for my fellow insomniacs. It's local band, Crucifictorious…”_

The loud, heavy beats that crash and clang through the radio at the shop are hardly anything that Killian would call music, but it’s enough to keep his energy up as he breaks down the latest car that’s come through their garage for parts. The engine’s in decent shape, but there’s an angle to getting in under the hood that keeps making his arm twinge tonight. He stops, stepping back, and flexes his left hand a few times, but the stiffness and pain doesn’t recede. He tries rotating his shoulder next, but that does nothing except aggravate the nerves along his arm.

Not for the first time, he curses the the guard and the knife that caused it all.

Leroy from the junkyard will come by in the next day or two to take the frame off Smee’s hands, but the parts? Smee claims he’s got a buyer for them. Killian tries to ignore the vague nature of his boss’s work, but sometimes it’s difficult. Like earlier today, when he’d come in for the evening, fresh off another encounter with Emma Swan, the quarterback with sky-high walls and a killer arm. (For a girl, Liam would have admitted, grudgingly. For anyone, Milah would have argued, had the two of them ever met.) Smee had been on the phone in his office and Killian had heard the name _Ned Black_ and the word _tonight_.

It’s enough to tip him off that the parts he’s extracting from this vehicle may quite possibly be obtained on the other side of legal. But it’s not enough to wreck his future. _Plausible deniability_ is a phrase he’d heard back in the day, back when he was twelve years old and Liam’s old buddies on the force would come over on Saturday afternoons for beer and college football.

He knows what those words mean, and he can only hope that it’s enough to keep him and his juvie record away from any more brushes with the law.

.

At school on Friday, Ruby convinces him to come to the game, flirting harmlessly at their lockers, her short skirt in the school colors swinging around her thighs as she leans against the chipped blue paint.

“Come on, you know there’s a certain blonde haired quarterback that you’re dying to see in action. Just think about it. Those tight pants,” she shimmies in a mock shiver, lips twitching into a smile.

How can she read him so well? Killian bangs his head against his locker after shutting it. It’s not that she’s wrong, but damn. He had to pick the most open girl in the world as one of his only friends in this new school.

He doesn’t even have to say anything in reply. She just continues her teasing. “You know, Ian” she sings at him, “I have her locker combination. If you’re curious.”

 _That_ he does find hilarious. “That’s the one thing I definitely wouldn’t need,” he grins as he turns to face the hallway and oncoming student traffic. “Juvie, Ruby. You think I can’t pick a lock?”

She tilts her head at him, eyes sparkling as she holds out a box decorated in blue and gold, “Well then, lover boy. Here’s her spirit box for the week. Let’s see if she has it at the pep rally, shall we?”

As he grabs the box from her, mock glare firmly in place, Ruby yells after him, “Football lockers are down the hall, to the left!”

He can hear her laughter as he spins around to give her the finger, and then keeps walking away, traitorous heart speeding.

.

They win the game, and he almost finds himself excited about it, watching as he is from the last row of the bleachers. His knees bounce rapidly as the each minute passes in the game, the score remaining tied at 7 since late in the first quarter. Emma’s easy to find, her blonde ponytail subdued under her helmet, but still falling down her back, curling around the Swan and 7 that grace the back of her jersey.

He tells himself the antsiness is only because he really needs a cigarette, having opted to refrain while at a school function. It’s a new thing for him that he shrugs off (while knowing that it actually means something) and instead he finds himself making eye contact with Ruby and her girlfriend as their cheers become increasingly tense as the team gets possession back with only a minute left to go.

Emma’s pants are covered in grass stains, dirt, blood. He can see it from all the way up in the stands and he knows that it must be even worse up close. He remembers the stains on his own pants, from Friday evening games in the park. The earthy scent, and the way that he had to figure out how clean his jeans without ruining them with bleach.

But, as always, the memories are tainted by the way his life fell apart.

The minute Emma’s final pass sails through the air, he knows that her reciever will catch it. It’s not even a question, though it’s also not a perfect pass. But he feels it in his gut, the way number 11 attacks his route and evades the defenders. There’s magic in the one play, a few seconds that seem to make the rest of the time spent anxious worth it.

Except all he feels - in addition to excitement for her - is the need to get away from the stadium. From everybody.

He’s outside the fences at his car, holding a cigarette when the sound of the marching band erupts, signalling the official touchdown ruling and the end of the game. He never smokes it, though, just lets it roll between his fingers as he lays on the hood of his car and watches the throng exiting the stadium.

That’s where Ruby and Mulan find him later, once the team has left for the fieldhouse and the lights start turning off.

“Please tell me you weren’t out here the whole time,” Mulan opens.

“Nah, saw the winning pass and all.”

“Well, victory party is at her place tonight,” Mulan tips her head in Ruby’s direction.

He hesitates. “I’m not sure that I -”

“You’re coming,” Ruby interjects.

Lips twitching, he slides the cigarette behind his ear, in case he needs the escape for later. “You better have some good booze then,” he jokes, hopping off the hood of his car. “Need a ride?”

He asks them, even though Ruby’s house is only a few blocks from school. But, as they hop into his car and he speeds out of the lot, there’s something to be said for the wind whipping through the windows on a hot September night in Texas.


	2. Chapter 2

_Two Weeks Later_

Emma doesn't need anybody at the latest victory party to tell her that she's only welcome tonight because of the bright flashing numbers on the scoreboard as the clock wound down the past three weeks. Just like she doesn't need anybody to tell her that those wins should never have been hers in the first place.

Today, two hours before the game, the newspaper and radio reports got hold of some of Graham’s medical records. She was in Coach’s office when she found out, meeting for a game day lunch. He’d pulled her aside after the morning pep rally and said, “Swan, you’re in my office during third lunch.” And then she had to sit, sweating into the worn leather of his guest chair, as he ranted and yelled and slammed down the phone in frustration. She had to wit and watch him startle as he caught sight of her. And she quietly slipped out the door when his face fell into waiting hands.  

She may have started the day with fresh snickerdoodles in her locker (thank you, Ruby), all the whispers in her vicinity this afternoon filtered through her mind. The, “Graham will never walk again” comments and the ever present, “I hope Emma Swan can figure her shit out.”

Or her favorite, “The school board never should have allowed her on the team.”

That one hurts the most. Courtesy of the loud mouthed, so-called tell it like it is, all-sports shock jock. _Fucking Leroy._ It shouldn’t hurt at all, but it’s the voice she always hears.

Literally.

He’s somehow is able to reach the student population in the middle of the day, despite cell phones being outlawed in classrooms. She wishes he’d just stick to operating the junkyard. But he’s managed to convince the town that they need his voice on the airwaves, too.  

She shudders at the memory of his words, despite a third win in a row under her belt. But it was another dramatic win, secured tonight not by her, but a pick-six late in the fourth quarter by Herc.  They would have lost without it, defeated by the team ranked last in their region. And that’s why her stomach’s tied into knots as she straightens her back, desperate for some degree of confidence, and enters the party.  

.

Fact number one. _It’s loud._

Emma weaves around the already drunk bodies that comprise approximately ninety percent of the student population at S.B. High.

Fact number two. _They might as well allow her and Merida into the same locker room as the team, given the state of undress she’s currently witnessing._

She really didn’t need to see Will Scarlet’s ass.

She promised Ruby she’d be here, though, a group of cheerleaders catching up with her in the locker room after the game. _This time_ , she swore, ribs being wrapped tight by the trainer. This time she’d actually attend the party and act like an actual teenager, instead of “seventeen going on fucking forty”. If there’s one thing she’s learned in the three years of friendship, and that is one doesn't break promises to Ruby. Ever. Even as Ruby’s words made her stomach drop and her mind race over all of the things that she should be doing instead. So here she is, limping through the door, nursing sore muscles from the three sacks in the third quarter.

In the living room to her left, couches are already pushed against the edges of the room and the picture is complete with a stack of beer bottles placed in that precarious pyramid, the one that always falls before the night is over because some assholes like to start shit and push and shove their way around. Right now, though, it’s just somewhere around half of the first string players and a case of beer, some less than impressive attempts at shotgunning. A slurred, drunken tease filters through to the hallway where Emma stands, the voice crystal clear. It comes from Merlin who had ten receptions tonight and two touchdowns.

“Come on, Lancelot,” he taunts.

Laughter comes from the surrounding guys, combined with some loud chants of _Chug! Chug! Chug!_

As Emma pauses in the doorway, leaning against the wooden frame, Merlin looks over and sends an exaggerated wink her way. She engaged in an internal debate, understanding full well what he’d told her week ago, taking her under his wing and running route after route well into the night.

_Team bonding,_ he’d said, _is more than just what happens on the field._

Usually she wouldn’t avoid a challenge (she’s not a _prude_ , despite the fact that most people accuse her of being too serious, too prickly, too much of everything that’s wrong in the world). Even with the win tonight, though, she knows that alcohol will only make her morose. (And more sore than she already is tomorrow morning.)

Paying half-attention to the guys, she peeks around the room, looking for Ruby and vowing to make a quick appearance and then convince Jefferson to pick her up after his band's gig at the local dance hall.

She's distracted for a moment by Lancelot’s pouting reply, finger pointed at Merlin, beer in his other hand, “I told you not to call me that, man.” He says it with a laugh, though, as he narrows his eyes to counter, “I’m not ashamed of my name.”

If it’s supposed to be a burn, it’s only weak one, but he punctuates it with ten seconds of shotgunning. Not nearly close to the team record, but quick enough that he gets some cheers.

Merlin snorts, “Your name isn't Archimedes so sit down,” then, clearly catching sight of her beckons, “Swan get over here. I bet you can shotgun faster than my man Lancelot over here.”

She turns in time to see the furrow of Lance’s brows as he growls, “Archie, I swear…”

There’s a scuffle between the two of them, as Merlin playfully punches at his teammates shoulder. Rolling her eyes at the antics, Emma shakes her head, “Maybe later.”

But they all know that she won’t find them again.

.

When she finally catches up to Ruby, her friend is in the kitchen. The now familiar form of Jones leans up against the counter nearby, Ruby’s legs swinging as she blatantly ogles Mulan dancing with Merida in the next room. Arching a single brow at Ruby, Jones teases her about something, speaking too low for Emma to hear. Ruby, as usual, remains impervious to whatever he's saying,  shamelessly staring at her girlfriend with a curve of red lips and a gleam in her eyes.

Emma pauses before making her way over to the duo. Since his comments a few weeks ago, she hasn't seen Jones under the bleachers. Not wanting to admit that she spent the first week looking out for him, she still managed to catch glimpses of him throughout their tiny school - before school with Ms. French in the library, in detention after school, as she tried to convince their Spanish teacher that Will Scarlet’s presence was required at football practice.

Each time she's seen him, he's studiously avoided eye contact, and yet there's something about his posture that screams awareness. (She _really_ doesn’t like to admit to the tightness in her stomach, every time he ignores her.) She even went so far as to find Ruby at school to ask about him.She swears, she was. But then as soon as Ruby looked at her with knowing eyes and smirk, Emma chickened out. What she said instead was, “Merlin still has a crush on you, you know,” which isn't even really true.

Ruby had shrugged, because really, Merlin’s feelings (or fake feelings as they were) aren't really her problem and Emma knew it. Flushing with the transparency of her total and complete awkwardness, Emma had turned to leave abruptly when Ruby had nudged her, shoulder to shoulder against a wall of lockers.

“You're acting weird, Emma,” is all Ruby needed to say.

She's tried to blame it on football, the team, everything. She really had. But Ruby didn't buy it. “You sure it doesn't have anything to do with the new guy?”

Emma had doubled down with a terse, “No, why would it?”

Ruby's lips had twitched. “No reason, I guess.”

(Sometimes she hates how perceptive her friend is.)

She forces herself to make eye contact with Jones as she weaves her way through her drunken peers, a fleeting, fluttering of nerves in her stomach as their eyes lock. She's close enough to them that she can see his pupils dilated and his cheeks flushed from alcohol. Finished reading Ruby, he's letting her run her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck as they chill. The clench in her stomach is easy to dismiss as after effects of the game, the letdown of adrenaline, and not tangible evidence that she's not as unaffected by Jones as she'd like to be.

He half-smiles at her as she leans against the counter on the other side of Ruby.

“My two favorite friends,” she croons, a telltale streak of red against the can of beer that she holds.

“Jones.” Emma acknowledges him with an nod, then turns to Ruby to ask, “Got any club soda left?”

Ruby wrinkles her nose, but appears to think twice before giving Emma shit. “Yeah. Ian, wanna reach the fridge for Emma?”

Sure,” he says absently. He's been staring at her for the entire exchange, his gaze holding for one more long moment before turning to the fridge with a shrug. Then, handing the drink to Emma, he elaborates with a laconic, “Anything for our star, here.”

Emma's fists clench, but Ruby stops her with a nudge of feet. She slaps Jones’s arms and commands him, “Be nice.”

“So violent with your friends, darling,” he grins.

Ruby pins him with a stern look and he sighs. _“_ Why don't you go dance with your girlfriend, tell _her_ what to do for a while.”

Ruby's smirk and wink are full of lascivious intent. “Mmmm. I think I will.”

They both watch Ruby walk over to Milan, hips swaying, and their eyes widen as Ruby’s fingers thread through her girlfriends hair and their lips crash together.

“Well,” Emma says as Ruby proceeds to drag Mulan away from the dance floor, “that will be all over town by tomorrow morning.”

“It's one way to come out, that's for sure.”

He almost sounds bitter, which makes her wonder. And then lecture herself for being so curious about him. Instead of commenting on whatever discomfort he's clearly feeling, Emma turns to him, “You do know that we won't see them for the rest of the night, right?”

Jones smiles at her, that same enigmatic half-smile from earlier. He doesn't answer her question, just asks, “Wanna take your soda out back and yell at me to quit smoking?”

Shock at his continued attention aside, the last thing Emma wants to do is be around all these people. Shrugging, she still makes motion to follow him. “They're your lungs.”

His smile turns into a full grin, flirty and glittering. “That's the spirit, Swan.”

.

She texts Jefferson from the backyard, and he responds with _eta 20 mins_ , which for Jeff means at least 40, so she wraps her arms more tightly around her waist at the slight chill in the night air and watches as Jones half-heartedly takes drags of his cigarette.

“So do you smoke just because it's part of the whole persona?” She asks.

Brow lifted, “What do you mean?”

Waving her hand up and down, “All black, leather, cigarettes and a pretentious lighter. You got a motorcycle hiding away somewhere?”

He snorts, but she can tell he's not really offended.  “Locked away in the garage for now. Right now my car’s the beater hatchback that always has some kind of message spray-painted on it by the end of the week.”

She's wondered if that was his when it started showing up in the lot a few weeks ago, right around the time he stopped lingering after school, but she lets it go for now. “Let me guess, your dad’s old bike?”

She infuses just enough of a tease in her tone that she's surprised when a shadow passes over his features.

“No dad to speak of.”

At that, there's another kind of burning low in her stomach, the same place that burns when she thinks about her own parents. “Me, neither.

The pause in their conversation is too heavy for her to handle standing still, so she hops down off the deck, skipping the two stairs, and stalks across the backyard. Just far enough that she's away from the windows and the sometimes too-curious eyes.

Lying back on the grass, she ignores the slight dampness of the lawn and stares up at the night sky.

It's a few minutes before he joins her, but she hears the rustle of leather as he sits, arms wrapped around his knees. Turning to look at him, she notices the way his throat works as he swallows.

The sounds of the party filter through the space between them for another moment, before it's drowned out by his words. “It was my brother’s bike.”

“Was?” She asks softly, sitting up.

“Yeah.”

“So who do you live with now?”

He laughs, “Just me. Shortly after my brother,” he gulps, skipping over important words, “I tracked down my dear old sperm donor and got emancipated. It's not a terribly special tale, I'm afraid.

She scuffs the ground with her beat up converse, the color two seasons old at this point. Her fingers twitch, wanting to reach out, but she doesn't, pushing him away with her words, yet again.

“At least you had somebody, even if only for a while.”

Jones tilts his head at her in confusion, “Thought you lived with your grandmother, or an aunt. Or something.”

“Nah, just Ingrid for the last four years. It's easier for the town to say she's my aunt, so I let them.” She laughs bitterly, “Ingrid is well known by the town and I'm just that Swan girl who's never quite learned her place.”

His gaze flicks to the house - the music and lights and drunken laughter - then back to her. “Where were you before that?”

“Nowhere special. You?”

“Nowhere good.”

His smile is a fierce baring of teeth, daring her to ask another question. She knows that look too well, that caged misery, tamped down because it does no good to let it out. So she lets him keep his secrets. What does it matter to her?

They're quiet after that, the bass thumping in the air and their hands leaning on the patch of grass between their bodies, almost touching, but both of them avoiding that next step.

Moments later, the sound of a scuffle inside the house breaks the silence. It had been so long since she's been able to be that still, that calm, that her body physically startles at the loud noises filtering out the window. Jumping up, she has a good enough angle to peek in a window just in time to see Jefferson being shoved by a wasted Will Scarlet.

“ _Fuck_ ,” she spits. “I gotta handle this.”

Jones looks up at her from where he's still sitting, “Need backup? I'm good in a fight.”

She pins him with a glare. “I don't need to know _how_ you know that. But no, I'll be fine.”

The back door slams against the wall as she opens it with force and her classmates watch, eyes wide, as she stalks towards the drama. Scarlet heckles her as she grabs him by the game jersey that he's still wearing, stained with blood and sweat and turf.

“Back off,” she grits her teeth.

He slurs, “Your boy here was making a fool of himself.”

She glances at Jefferson, a slight flush staining his cheeks, eyes still filled with liner from his show. He lifts his shoulder, rotates it, testing the injury. “It's not out of socket.”

She turns back to Will, “Listen, I’m sorry about Graham-”

“Donyoudare say his name,” comes out in one long, drunken yell.

“Fine. Just back the fuck off and I'll see you at practice Monday morning.”

Scarlett shakes his head, “Film room, Sunday at 9 am sharp. Coach’s orders.” 

_Shit._  

There goes that shift at work. 

“Well then you better sober up, _teammate,”_ she punches his shoulder hard enough for him to flinch. 

Then, pushing at Jeff’s back, they make their way out the front door. Merlin trails behind them for a few steps, trying to get her attention, but she brushes him off. “Later,” she says through clenched jaw. 

“Fine. Later,” he replies, some hidden strain that she's too tired to decipher. 

 

* * *

 

The next day at the shop Killian is neck deep under the front of a car when Ned Black enters the garage. “Got a new client, kid,” his gruff voice fills the room, making Killian’s back stiffen. 

Still, Ned Black isn't to be ignored, so he rolls out from under the car and asks, “What's that got to do with me?” 

“Well now, Smee tells me that I'm to keep you out of things. But the way I see it, you're working after hours and under the table, so Billy-boy isn't really in the place to make demands.” 

Wiping his hands on a rag, Killian glances over at Billy’s office and then back to Black.  “You sure you want to tempt Smee’s wrath?” 

His boss isn't known for being the toughest guy in town, that's reserved for the man standing over him right now. Even still, being under Smee’s protection used to hold _some_ weight among the criminal element. 

“Look kid, I keep most things on the up and up -” 

Killian snorts. 

Glaring, Black continues, “This client has the kind of cash you can't deny, and you've got the skills to help.” 

“Keeping my nose clean, Mr. Black. And I suggest you do the same.” 

He's about to say more when Killian’s boss enters through the side door, out where he takes breaks with sips out of a bottle in a non-discreet paper bag. 

Killian rolls his eyes, “you should just invest in a flask, boss.” 

“You trying to turn me all upscale, kid?” He's snide, but with at least some degree of affection. Not enough for Killian to count on, but something that keeps him employed and with a roof over his head. 

“Now you,” Smee points a finger at Black. “You know the rules.” 

Black puts his hands up in surrender, “Yeah, yeah, yeah.” He tilts his head towards the office, “I got a proposition for you.” 

.

The dust on the side of the road kicks up as he speeds down the lane. There's nowhere to really go, not while the folks in town are all at church and brunch and on Sunday picnics with their families. He knows that Ruby will be wearing a skirt down to her knees and attempting to charm Mulan’s parents after last night’s display at the party. So she's out. 

He also knows that Ms. French will be filing books back into the shelves at school. Maybe she'll let him in. 

Squealing into the school lot, he's not surprised to find the librarian striding to the school doors, her pumps clacking along the cement. 

“Want some help Ms. French?” He calls out the window. 

Smiling, she still shakes her head, telling him no. “You know the rules. I shouldn't even be here myself.” 

Winking, he tries to tease her into accepting. “I'm good at secrets,” he promises. And it’s even true. 

“And _that_ is just one thing I'm afraid of Killian.” 

She doesn’t have to sigh for him to feel the disappointment. Suddenly the air in his car thickens to the point of suffocation. It’s like she can see through him, see past the surface and recognize his love of words. See past the dirt and grime and the insufferability of his past. See straight through to his willingness to do whatever it takes to survive. 

_She can't know about Ned Black and the shop, can she?_  

He shakes his head, knowing what she's going to say next. “I'm not going to see Mrs. Nolan.” 

Looking directly at him, _through him_ , all she says in reply is, “I never said you had to.” 

He can’t meet her gaze, so he glances away, heart hammering at being so visible. He rolls his eyes, even though she can’t see them. Then, shrugging, he turns back to where she stands, “Yeah, but you were thinkin’ it.” 

“Do you blame me?” She questions him honestly. 

And he can hardly deny it. 

“Nah. I've just tried the talking thing,” he admits. And he knows it's with a heaviness that is impossible to hide anytime he thinks of the person who got him to _talk_ in the first place. 

_Milah, with her dark eyes, her shining curls. Milah, bleeding out in front of him. Milah, whispering to him that no effort is wasted effort._

“It didn't take,” he finishes. 

Her shoulders drop, and he knows he's disappointed her. But there's no going back for him, no red to revisit the pain. 

“Well, you know you can always change your mind,” her firm voice, so sure of her rightness. 

He hopes one day to feel that level of conviction about _anything_. 

.

Killian lingers in the parking lot afterwards. Car idling as he drowns out the noise in his brain with rage flowing out of his speakers. He’s been keeping his eyes on the gas gauge and had just resolved to head out to the garage when his eyes catch on a lone figure, even as stream of athletes exit the field house. They find her so easily, her long golden hair tied back into a ponytail. She's shoving a cap over her head and slipping on different shoes as she walks, hopping first on her right leg, then her left. When she's done, her eyes scan the lot, clearly seeking out her expected ride, likely her same friend from the night before. 

Before he can second guess his instinct, he yells, “I can give you a ride, Swan,” ignoring the jeers from the rest of the team at the innuendo. 

“Yeah Swan,” the wide receiver they call Merlin teases. “Why don't you get a _ride_ from lover boy here.” 

Weight shifting from one leg to another, she opens and closes her mouth several times, eyes flitting back and forth between his car and her teammates. “Jefferson is already on his way,” is her non-answer. 

Her teammate scoffs, waving a hand as he counters, “Your boy is always late.” 

Emma pauses, considering. Then, wrinkling her nose, she asks, “How would you know that?” 

“I know things.” Merlin sounds bored when he answers, but Killian can see the tightness in his shoulders and the way his hands curl into fists. “I'll wait for him and let him know you got another ride. I wanted to step back inside behind and ask Coach something anyway.” 

It's clearly a lie, but Emma merely huffs out a breath and concedes. “Okay, fine. Whatever. My shift starts in twenty minutes. But tell him my shift ends at nine and I can't be late getting home. I have that calculus exam tomorrow.” 

She nods her thanks to him as she pulls open the passenger door, the rusted handle giving her some trouble. Then, waving to Merlin, Killian pulls out of the parking lot. 

“The Dairy Queen just outside of town,” she tells him, when he asks where they're headed. 

He wiggles his eyebrow, “Do I get a free Blizzard if I get you there in ten minutes?” 

Tone flirtatious, he tries to ease the tension that always fills the gaps between them. 

She smiles, a relieved stretch of lips, “Okay there lead foot. Let's not kill your car.” She pauses, then tilts her head at him, “But I suppose I could give you a dipped cone for fifteen minutes?” 

He grins. “Deal.” 

He can't hide the way his smile remains, but she's no longer paying attention - focusing her stare out the window and avoiding his gaze as she slumps low in the seat. 

.

One week - and a half hour spent idling in the school parking lot, pretending he isn't looking for her - later, Killian leans over the counter at the Dairy Queen and watches as Emma dips vanilla soft-serve into the golden caramel coating. You know, you don't have to call me Jones all the time,” he says. 

“Still not a chocolate fan, Jones?” She asks. 

He laughs as she hands over his ice cream. “You do that a lot, you know.” 

“What?” She feigns ignorance with faux-innocent eyes, wide and clear green.

Licking some caramel off the corner of his lips, it's hard to miss the way her eyes track his movements. 

“Skip over comments you have no interest in. A lesser fellow might get offended,” he tells her. 

Rolling her eyes, she refuses to ring up his order, though she does sneak a peek behind her to make sure the shift manager is preoccupied. “Whatever Jones. I’m not going to let some guy’s reaction dictate what I do or say.” 

His smile widens as he takes a huge bite into the sweet crunchy coating, “I never said you should.” 

Her lips twitch, “Good.” 

“Good,” he repeats.Then, breaking the moment that hangs between them, “Gotta go. Later, Swan.” 

“Later, Killian,” she says. 

The use of his full name jolts him so much that he comes to a skidding halt right as he opens he door. He turns, the jangle of bells still lingering, and gapes at her, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. 

“What? I have a friend in the front office.” 

* * *

By 8 pm, the restaurant is empty enough that Emma can pull out her physics textbook and study at the counter. She's pulling a double today and where the day manager hates it when she studies at work, the night shift doesn't care at all, especially two days after another hard fought win, this time against the Warriors on the road. 

So engrossed in studying, she doesn't even realize that Coach had shown up until he clears his throat, adjusting the bill of his ball cap then leaning his elbows on the counter. 

She snaps her head up. “Late night burgers?” She asks with a smile, knowing that he can't be bothered to remember lunch on days that he's holed up with his assistants, working in the next week’s game plan.   

He offers her a conspiratorial smile, “Thanks, Emma. Just promise not to tell Mary Margaret and we've got a deal.” 

“A deal?” she asks, as she punches in his order. “I don't think I asked for anything.” 

His jaw softens, “but you can, Emma. Any day. Any night.” 

A blush creeps across her cheeks, as it always does when she feels the air of pity that accompanies his words. She should be used to it by now, but it still feels uncomfortable. Each and every time. 

“So, the Knights are coming up next this week,” she changes the subject. 

“I hear their coach is out for revenge after last year.” 

“You let me worry about Arthur. We go way back.” 

Emma pauses at his use of the other coach's first name, but let's it slide. He's Coach and she's sure as shit not going to question him. 

“Now tell me, physics test tomorrow. How are you feeling about it?” 

Now this, she'll jump on. “Isn't your wife the one who’s supposed to ask me about feelings?” She teases. 

“Now listen here, Swan,” he says mock-sternly. “I'll have you know that not all coaches are robots.” 

More seriously, “I know, Coach. It's just a lot, you know.” 

The fry cook places his to-go order on the counter as he replies, “I know. You just keep your head up and keep me informed.” 

She nods, quick and decisive. “Yes, Coach.” 

.

The night nurse angrily taps her watch as Emma unlocks the front door. 

“I know, I know. We had an issue with the totals at one of the registers. Closing out took longer than expected.” 

The nurse looks like she's about had enough excises, but all she says is, “Fine. Time and half for the hour in my next paycheck.” 

Emma sighs. That means a Saturday shift, which she's tried to avoid since starting games on Friday nights. By this week is a rare Thursday game, because of the sharing agreement the Knights have with the other high schools in their district. 

Emma makes a note to call her manager tomorrow to see if there's any need and nods at the nurse, who softens just enough to say, “You really might want to consider a home for your aunt.” 

There's that pity again. Twice in one night is more than she can handle, but then, if Ingrid goes into a home, Emma's gone. So all she does is smile and nod, and tells the woman goodnight. 

She texts Jefferson: _Ingrid watch next Saturday?_  

It's twenty minutes before he responds, which is strange for Jefferson. But all he says is: _sure. can I bring a friend?_  

She laughs as she sends a reply _. you have other friends besides me?_  

_Ha. Ha._  

_Fine, as long as it's not any of your bandmates. They have big mouths._  

There’s a long pause before he answers. 

_You won't be in danger, I promise._  

_._

 When Killian sits down at her lunch table on Wednesday, she sneers before she notices it's him. 

“Hey there, Swan. Having a pleasant day?” He teases her as he settles his lunch tray across from her. 

“Hey.” Her tone is short, and it's really not about him, but her mind is still on the morning’s practice. Probably the most disastrous the team has had since Graham was first injured. 

He's nonplussed at her attitude, shrugging it off as he continues to talk to her. “Thought you might want some company,” backing up his statement by waving over Ruby and Merida. 

“Sure, whatever,” she shrugs. “I was just saving a seat for Jefferson.” 

“You might be waiting a while.” 

She tilts her head, “Say, what?” 

He nods over to the table where Lance and Merlin are sitting with some other teammates. Sure enough, there's Jefferson leaning over the table, his skinny black jeans and a hint of eyeliner standing out among the football jerseys. 

Her forehead wrinkles as she watches their interactions for hints about what her friend is up to, but eventually gives up. Hey, she's not his keeper. 

Just then, Scarlet slides into the seat next to her. “What's up, Swan.” 

This time she is rude on purpose, “What do you need Scarlet?” 

He leans back and scratches his jaw. “Yeah, so I might have been an ass at the party last weekend?” He says it as if it's a question. 

Merida, sliding her tray on the other side of Emma’s snorts, “You're always an ass, _William_.”

Will scoffs, leaning across Emma's lunch to swipe a handful of fries from Merida’s plate. “Don't lie, you just like the way my ass looks in the tight pants, don't you Mer?” 

Her fiend just blinks and then turns to Ruby to ask a question about the art class the three of them share. Emma bangs her head on the table. “Don't remind me. That photography assignment is gonna kill me.” 

Killian perks up at the mention of photography, leaning across the table, body shifting just enough that his feet brush against hers, under the table and out of view. “You know, Swan, I don't suck at photography.” 

Her heart races and her body flushes with sudden heat, but she doesn't move away from him. 

“What's your point Jones?” 

She reverts to using his last name, despite their previous interaction at the DQ, but he doesn't seem bothered by it. He shrugs a reply, “Merely sharing an observation.” His breath hitches as he presses his feet against hers more deliberately. 

Scarlet snorts. “I think what lover boy is saying here, QB, is that he'd like to help you with your assignment. And then probably help you out with other things.” 

This time it's Merida that leans across Emma's lunch and punches Will’s arm.

 “Damn what it is with y'all and the punching?” 

Emma smirks, “Just a little healthy team bonding, right?”  Then, “you are still on the team, right?” 

Will pouts at her tone, “Of course I am.” 

“Oh, my mistake. Last I checked, morning practice wasn't optional.” Emma replies casually, making her point. 

But that seems to be as much as he can handle because he jumps up from the table, chair screeching as it flies back. “Alright, I’m out of here,” he bites out as he storms away. 

“Okay…” Merida trails off. 

“You know,” Ruby jumps in, “he might just want some friends.” 

“Oh, please,” Emma scoffs, “you're just saying that because you used to sleep with him.” 

“While true, think about it.” 

Merida flushes slightly, but it recedes as quickly as it came. “Yeah yeah, we’re assholes too is what you're saying. Let's blame football.” 

“Ha,” Ruby says. “But seriously, I saw him leaving the hospital this morning and he just seemed so sad.” 

There's a lull in conversation at that, as Emma meets Killian's gaze. He's been so quiet throughout and she wonders if Will was onto something about Killian's mention of photography. But before she can ask, he pulls away abruptly, leaving cool air where his foot had been pressed against hers. 

He mutters an apology as he leaves the table, and Emma can't help but to feel emptier than she had just moments ago. She pushes it aside, and allows the din of the lunchroom to fade as she runs through the playbook in her head. 

No distractions, she tells herself. 

Then, more firmly. 

_No distractions._  

She almost believes herself by the time the bell rings for class. 


End file.
